夏天,南方像个蒸笼,又闷,又湿。头顶的天空,密布乌云。露水也是积了又散,散了又积。外祖父住的院子里有两株薄荷,炎炎烈日下倒也亭亭净植。外祖父经常摘一些薄荷叶,就着骄阳,将新鲜的叶片烘干。减了水分的叶子,干巴巴的,好像一碰就会支离破碎,但它们天生的清新味仍然留存,蝉翼般的薄荷叶周身包裹着一层清凉的香味。绿得发黑的干叶片儿,反面蒙着一层模糊的淡灰色,正面隐隐约约看得见纤细的纹理,一条贴着一条,交错,分叉,像瓷器上细腻的花纹,又像城墙壁画上古老的线条。 Summer, the south is like a steamer, stuffy and wet. Overhead sky, clouds. Dew is also plot and scattered, scattered and plot. My grandfather lived in the yard with two mint, under the scorching Sun also pavilion net plant. Grandpa often pick some mint leaves, on the sun, the fresh leaves drying. The water-less leaves, dry, seem to be fragmented as if touched, but their innate freshness is still retained, with the mint leafy clover leaf wrapped around the cool scent. The dark green leaves are dry, the opposite is covered with a layer of fuzzy light gray, the front vaguely visible slender texture, one close to one, staggered, bifurcation, like delicate patterns on porcelain, and like the city walls Frescoed ancient lines.